Our thoughts, to the average Joe in 1549 B.C. Egypt, were not thought to belong solely to us. Rather, our thoughts were sent to us directly from the gods. When you are woken up by the sudden surge in your bladder it’s because Ra has ordered you to rise.

When you feel yourself particularly virile and masturbate more than six times a day, Osiris is on one.

Tawaret wills your sporadic drives to Pinkberry at 9:30p.m. on a Tuesday.

Isn’t that just ludicrous? That the ancient Egyptians could think something so silly?

Nowadays, we know those drives aren’t sent to us by gods.

They’re sent to us by way of marketers, the gods of the Tech Revolution.

We are relentless in our conspicuous consumption, more, more, more, gluttonous pigs. We have not changed. We’ve modernized but we still are the same sheep listening to commands, demanding speed, demanding instant gratification. Give me the most for the cheapest NOW.

Now when I think of a simile to compare with happiness, happiness is like swerving & snaking through desolate highways in a glittering Mercedes, shot by a prolific film director in 4:3 and black and white.

Love is a sultry Tiffany’s moment behind red velvet and her hair’s pinned up and her mascara’s plastered on thick and her breasts are supple and her body is lithe and she’s wearing nothing but diamonds.

And beauty is the Cover Girl who’s air brushed and lying and projecting a false, wholesome image who dies alone in a musky hotel with a needle sticking out her arm, nowhere near a vein.

Or the Cover Girl who’s severed head is hanging from my kitchen doorway, draining into a bucket which I will provide extra nutrients to my Wednesday morning breakfast.

Hi. My name is Betty Duncan. I’m forty-three, I’ve had two natural births, one C-section, 32 bad perms, and I used to be Miss South Carolina and currently spend my days as a serial killer. Screw you if you think my sentences are all run-on. I have a lot to say, dammit and don’t have time to stop and think about how the reader might like it.

I married a pro football player who’s bad with money and would rather jerk off to Jugz magazines secretly in the attic than touch my cellulite-pocked fat ass. I’ve obviously seen better days.

I’m actually nice. I’m a real person. I deserve happiness.

I know you’ve probably turned your nose up, judging me for choosing such a traditionally male career. But let me tell you, there are plenty more serial killers out there who are women. They just aren’t stupid enough to get caught.

I don’t need your judgement, what I need is an extra scoop of vanilla protein powder. I’ll run by the Vitamin Shoppe after disposing of @TwinkleFairy’s skull. Luckily human blood is rich with riboflavin, amino acids, and protein. Much better than whey, anyway.

I’m loving my new diet, I can feel a new verve for life!

Torturing her for her Instagram passwords is the easy part. Her pathetic pleas and vain screams were like Bach to my ears.

The hard part was getting her smile to look natural in our selfie before I killed her.

Post is always the same with all the beautiful young Insta starlets I target:

Why should they get all the attention? They’ve never had to grind. They’ve never had to work. They simply typed a hashtag and found an audience, an agent, an income. Twinkle Fairy made twice than I do and she’s 16. She doesn’t even know who the president is.

The good thing about a rich husband who’s terrible with money is you can spend it without him knowing.

He never questioned my steadfast support in his weekly trips to the casinos, sitting at dealer tables for hours, coming home drunk and tasting like whiskey. Returning to demand sex like some crazed Neanderthal but too drunk to actually give it to me.

While he was out, I’d hire contractors – a new one every week to keep them from questioning. I told them I was building a Tornado cellar. But there was cellar beneath cellar, mazing into each other, with different sorts of locks at each level and various booby traps.

I made the second cellar a poison gas chamber, second because oxygen is the second most abundant element in the atmosphere, and in that chamber is where my victim’s supply ends.

The third chamber is sound proof, if I’m feeling very naughty I can bring out the toys: saws, knives, cheese graters.

The bottom cellar is the furnace and acid bath. I’ve built this very efficient death factory so my hobby may continue on.

No one’s ever come looking. No one asks. No one cares.

I watched a documentary on how to manage online talent. It’s difficult because you’re dealing with this being who chooses to forgo friendships and relationships to cultivate digital ones. But when a connection is solely forged through 0’s and 1’s can it be human? Can emotions be real?

My theory proved right. The YouTube stars were socially inept, terrible at conversing or understanding the feelings of another being. They were like mindless chicken running toward the farmer with the birdseed in his hand, the perfect opportunity to ring the chicken’s necks.

After killing the YouTube stars, no one noticed they were gone. No one cared about them. When asking why their YouTube content stopped the answer was always the same flippant one:

Must have been discovered and put on the TV.

No one was actually focused on the Youtube stars they’d watch, they were too busy in their own rat race to Insta-fame. Fifty-thousand followers and no friends. An economy where Likes are the currency.

Empathy is extinct. Humans are sarcastic robots hiding in plain sight on social media.

Why care for one another when you only have to care for yourself? We’ve become vapid, self-centered mongoloids. We must find our humanity. We must begin to care for each other again.

Steve Jobs was Judas. I’m your new savior. Find your way back or suffer my wrath.

My Wednesday blood orange smoothie helps me return to my humanity. It’s also really good for the skin. Like thirty-two people have commented on my last post, mentioning how great my skin looks!

My hands are calloused, yet surprisingly moisturized. Years of a chronic masturbation problem attest to that. Though in the early, middle twenties that compulsion’s waning and is it sad I feel like I’m losing a key part of my identity?

My gym partner and spotter knows how to train me. It’s like sex. Verbally abuse me. Demean me. The only difference is that in this setting it’s uncouth to spit on me. In any case, abusive verbiage surely produces a positive effect – at least for me. Takes every type to make the world turn, eh?

SNAP!

Sean- my gym bud – shoots a mirror selfie on his phone. He tags me and we post our bulbous cloud of fitness hashtags. Like nothing happened, we both grab weights and begin another set.

“I broke up with Carey last night.” Sean says in between lifts.

I finish my set and right before chugging my Mega Muscle Juice Jam, say, “Dude, I’ve been calling her Casey this whole time.”

“Oops! No, you’re right. Casey. But that’s just it. Be more memorable. Plus she wasn’t it. Look at me. I’m going to end up with a Jennifer Anniston, not a Lisa Kudrow.”

I reply slightly incredulous, “Didn’t you date for four months?”

Sean’s muscles are engorged. His chest is practically meeting his chin. A NY subway could travel through his veins. But where he had brawn, he lacked brains. ADD sets in and Sean bursts out, “DUDE! 562 likes on instagram already!”

The dream always was to become fitness video celebrities.

And why the hell not us? We said – fuck you! To our fears and inhibitions, we jumped for the opportunity and elusive path towards fame (or infamy if need be…) It’s those who reach out and take a chance who have the largest chance in succeeding.

Wasn’t that like an Einstein or Sylvester Stallone quote or something?

“I don’t know. It seems like you didn’t even try with Carey – Casey I mean. You know, when I think back and think to why I initially adopted fitness as a hobby. It was to produce an alluring package for the goods inside – my heart and personality. But lately, it seems that we’re all packaging and no content. Do you think we’ve lost our ways? Are we on a first-class ticket to loneliness and vanity?

Sean rubs his thumb and index from either side of his lip crease to his chin until they touch and says, “I didn’t listen to a single, pussy-bitch word you just uttered. And know why? Because I’m lifting. I’m going to be a god, eternal man, like Kanye.

And I think.

And think.

And realize.

He’s right.

If I want to get the best woman (or man – sexuality is so fluid nowadays, who knows what I’ll be into in five years…), I need to train and become the best, sexiest, most-muscled man. Life is competition. You’ve gotta be the best. That takes hard work and discipline. Survival of the fittest.

That’s how you get true love, right – you must train singularly until you’re worthy?

Nestled at the quaint estuary fed by the Piscataqua River is the charming town of Portsmouth.
New Hampshire’s government splashes this gem on every tourist post card to beckon tourists to its picturesquely preserved and overpriced lodgings.

The town is revoltingly cute.

Rows of strawberries line the banks of the city’s ponds like crimson scarves or veins of blood. The streets have been perfectly macadamized with geometric cobblestones, eliciting that European aesthetic. The architectural influence nods to the Motherland’s culture – the same culture the town’s founding puritans hoped to escape.

Then there’s the mill on the North Pond.

A gambrel roof encloses the unusual, blue-bricked building. The mill is two and a half stories high with square, navy-brick pilasters flanking the front. White molding of intricate execution juxtaposes the façade’s deep, navy blue exteriors. Were it not for the watermill protruding from its right side, the building would look almost like a private residence.

It did not at all appear to be a desolate factory.

A flash of black emerges from the small orange and brown wood delineating the mill’s left side.
The flash, after closer inspection, reveals a plump, porcelain girl sporting wispy black hair, sullen green eyes, and leather, double-buckle boots. A charcoal, Hot Topic jacket reaches down to a dark maxi skirt.
Her name is Kara.

Cautiously examining her surroundings, Kara paces quickly towards the mill’s front door. Careful to not be seen, she pulls out a key from her Nightmare before Christmas tote bag. She unlocks and enters.

In the middle of the room, she plops to the floor and opens a laptop.

“Hi Youtube!
It’s Kara, your favorite 7th grade witch!
First of all, I just want to thank everyone for their support in my campaign to be nominated for a Webby award. It’s because of you guys I do this and have been afforded so many amazing experiences to share my story with the world.
I truly love my fans.
No really.
Thank you.
As you know, this is my vlog to teach you non-magic folk – of whom, I sometimes adoringly refer to as plebeians – about my world
The world of magic!

October’s always been my favorite month because it’s thirty-one calendar days idolizing my people; the witches. So I want to invite all of you to a Livestream séance I’ll hold on Halloween night at 8 p.m. eastern standard time
– that’s 5 p.m. for you west coast Ghoulies –
to connect with our spirit realm. Yes, we’ll celebrate the night when the borders between realms are the thinnest.
It will be a ghastly good time!

I also like October because the leaves change colors. I swear, when I sit alone in the woods, chanting my solitary litha ritual, it literally feels like I’m surrounded by twenty foot flames. Flecks of reds, oranges, and browns combine into one natural blaze. Gorgeous, really!

I woke up this morning and soared my broom through the dazzling fall woods. Aloft in the air, the crisp New England air brushed my cheeks like the kisses of a million boogeymen, leaving them wet and red.
As I clutched my organite talisman (which I always wear for good luck) I knew it was going to be a good day.

But sometimes, even when you want it to be a good day, other negative forces preempt that.

For example, after my morning ride, I find myself betrayed.
My whole family knows Hot Pockets are my thing. I’m pudgy for a reason: I like my bread and cheese. So what does Hadley, my little brother, do when he realizes there’s only one left in the carton?
He eats it, that’s what.

In lieu of Hot Pockets, I boiled water to cook ramen noodles, all-the-while festering with contempt for Hadley’s actions. He knows Hot Pockets are my breakfast on Thursdays, why would he disrespect me like that? My blood, like my chicken ramen, boiled. I snarled and upturned my lips with hatred.
I had to teach Hadley a lesson, so right before the school bus came, I cast a spell that would malign Hadley with an insuperable starvation no food could assuage.
The poor little guy spent his whole morning feeling emaciated … BUT he did need to learn not to mess with a girl and her Hot Pockets. I’m still working on my spell casting powers, so the curse only lasted three hours, but that’s all Hadley really needed anyway.

In Biology – first period and my favorite – we dissected frogs.
At first, I was excited to show off my dissection skills. Having need for a myriad of animal organs (tributes, spells, etc.) I’ve perfected my use of the knife. But I always enchant my dissection specimen in order to prevent natural decay. Plebeians don’t have the benefit of magic in carcass preservation, so it was most abject and surprising for a witch to dissect a plebian-preserved frog. The formaldehyde suffused the classroom’s air. The noxious odor was almost visible under the fluorescent lights. It was horrible to do to a creature of Gaia.

Followed by my favorite class was my least favorite: P.E.
I mean, isn’t obvious?”
Kara then places her hands before her, showing off her rotund figure. Meanwhile, a black cat, seemingly out of nowhere, jumps on her lap.
“Oh, Jinx! I love you. Say hi to everyone!!
I swear, sometimes I think you guys love Jinx more than me.”
Kara lays Jinx to the side and winks cheekily to the camera.

“So naturally, in P.E., we played kickball and naturally Maddie Johnson and Brittany Moss were team captains. Maddie and Brittany are two walking Bratz dolls – without the keen fashion sense. They’re beautiful and stupid.
But apparently stupid can still be really mean.
So after I’m picked last and put on Maddie’s team, she tells me – You better not ruin our chances of winning, Butterball.

All the girls snickered at that lame remark.
But I didn’t want to be the fat girl who can’t win.

I charmed the ball to levitate upon impact, knowing it would be a home run for my team. When my foot touched the ball’s skin, it immediately shot up 50 feet in the air and jutted far, far from the field.
I skipped from first base, picked a bouquet to dandelions in between second and third and right before home, Brittany snatched an extra ball from the rack and shunted it at me, knocking me squarely in the kisser.
I immediately recoiled and lost my balance from the shocking blunt force.
The entire girls P.E. class cackled at my fall, pointing and chiding my lack of balance. Cruel words of piglet, fatty, and Bhudda were lobbed with alarming ease. Groupthink of cruel foolishness set in.
The incident incited an impassioned rage. None of these girls like me and I don’t know why. I mean, sure I’m a little out there AND also happen to be a witch, but isn’t it life’s diversity that makes the world turn? What had I ever done to fuel such resentment?
Is being fat such a crime?
No, these heathen Heathers were being mean just because they could be so.
Luckily, fourth and final period was English, where we spent our class reciting original poetry. When I stood at the podium, shaky and nervous to speak in front of Brody Jackson – the cutest boy in middle school – I took the opportunity to curse Brittany.
And this is your lesson for the day.
A simple revenge spell, such as the one I’m about to tell you needs nothing more than your voice.
It was a simple recitation:
Upon the realm in which I live
The gift of color I now give
To Brittany with heart and soul
To change her and make her whole
By all on high and the law of three
This is my will, so shall it be
Her hair wouldn’t change instantly – it would change during her sleep. I’m very excited to go to school tomorrow and test my abilities. I feel I’m really honing my witchcraft!
Well, that’s all I have for today. Make sure to subscribe to my channel and post your comments/questions in the thread below.
Bye, lovers!”
Kara snapped her notebook shut and ran out of the mill.

Day 2 – Friday, October 29, 2009 – 4:05 p.m. – 1 day before Halloween
The blue mill’s cavity is filled with a cornucopia of Wiccan memorabilia. The entire right side of the room – yes the outside is deceptive, it turns out to be one, gigantic room – serves as a garden for herbs of all kind: rosemary, sage, anise, agrimony, belladonna, and buckeye.

In the left corner, a dozen voodoo dolls hang from clotheslines, four of them pierced with all kinds of tiny weaponry. In the center stands one crucible with remnants of rare metals and one cauldron filled with a fetid, brown liquid.
Rows of shelves have been erected along the left sides of the building where one can find candles of all colors and sizes
– including the rare, 12-foot candle used for warding off curses.
Jars filled with pickled organs and phalanges line the bottom shelves.
A gold pentagram has been painted on the floor directly in front of the altar, centered on the far wall.
Kara rushes into the mill and logs onto her web cam in the pentagram’s center.
“Hi Youtube! It’s Kara, your favorite, 7th grade witch!
Turns out my revenge spell didn’t work quite as planned. I was hoping to turn Brittany’s hair white but it ended up this poopy green color.
I guess if you really think about it, it still worked out in my favor. For once, the snickering was not directed at me. By mid-first period Brittany wrapped her hair in a bandana, covering her tears with lady bug sunglasses. By second, she’d ordered her mom to pick her up early from school for a salon emergency.

In first period – Algebra – Mrs. Tuttle (It’s strangely pronounced Tootle – which is why we dubbed her Mrs. Poodle: only dogs were meant to have that kind of perm) paired me with the freakishly tall couple.
It’s a tale as old as time: freakishly tall boy meets freakishly tall girl and they merge, fusing to become a freakishly tall couple.
Apparently they are a freakishly inept couple as well – when we were paired off to complete a list of algebraic equations, they make me do all the work. Mrs. Poodle is a no nonsense broad who doesn’t care about nuances of situations. She expects the work to be done in a timely manner, despite all obstructions to your goal. I had no choice but to submit and finish all exercises alone.

Then, without the aid of luck (and I was wearing my dang organite talisman), second period history pairs me once again with the freakishly tall couple. Once again, I do all the work while they coddle and play footsie.
Stuff like that just irks me. Take some responsibility and pride – do your work!
So I decided to teach them a lesson – I wanted to truly turn them into a freakishly tall couple. I raced to the second floor balcony in between classes. The balcony edged the auditorium, where I could watch the herds of plebeians as they meandered between classes. I targeted the freakishly tall couple surreptitiously.
Nape, nape, nape will grow
Neck, neck, neck will show
Head aloft; eye in sky
Fired up, heavens high
Obviously, I targeted their necks, hoping to turn them into walking giraffes – but I didn’t target them adeptly. I should have been wearing my glasses because instead of the freakishly tall couple’s neck growing, I must have aimed at Mrs. Poodle.
She screamed a surprised Oh! The kind reminiscent when a woman sits on a child’s toy or has her phone’s vibration setting too strong.
The bad grey perm, along with her snubbed-nose countenance shot up like a rocket – thirty feet!
Her neck elongated as it shot up until her head met with the exposed, industrial ceiling, knocking her out cold on a pipe.
I immediately put a stop-curse on her, forcing her neck to snap back to its original size like a slinky, but the whole school erupted in a swell of fear. Perhaps it was a bit much… We were let out early without explanation.

With the extra time, I visited the magic store in Providence (thank you, magic broom) and bought a new jar of Hindu toes. I’m going to paint the toe nails with beautiful designs and make individuals necklaces out of each one.
I’ll of course charm them to provide the wearer with luck or wealth. You can place orders through the comments by providing your email address.
Well, that’s all I have for today. Make sure to subscribe to my channel and post your comments/questions in the thread below.
Bye, lovers!”

Friday, October 30, 2009 – 7:57 p.m. – Halloween
Kara sits in the center of five concentric circles made of lit, black candles. Wax collected and hardens along their edges like eerie lava bubbles. She sits in the center of the gold pentagram, in front of her laptop.
“Hi Youtube, it’s your favorite witch, Kara!
First of all, I’ve noticed a barrage of youth groups trolling my channel, and I feel I have to address the situation.
Whatever you’re standing for that’s fine, but I’m standing up for me and what I know and believe in. I would never intrude on your church’s website spewing hateful venom, but I’m not a hateful person like many of you.
Let me edify:
I believe the magic of life is learning it’s something that’s more than yourself. SO – when you realize this, you realize the importance in leading a fulfilled life – beyond the superficial. In becoming self-actualized as so, you realize that your children are your legacy. Gifting them with all your knowledge and love immortalizes you.
Now I wasn’t so lucky – my deadbeat dad never celebrated a birthday or holiday with me. My mom, jumped from man to man and currently holds down a minimum wage job. She also takes some night gigs that she never talks explicitly about.

She never read to me; taught me morals.
So, of course I was worried about damnation when I joined the black arts BUT it’s the parent’s job for, I mean, at least the first five years, to ensure your child has a secure ride to heaven. But, there’s no need for your words begging my baptism, – it’s too late for me.

However, you hateful plebeians can live vicariously through my ride to hell.
SO!
Make sure to subscribe!
Now onto our séance.
Normally, you’d need at least two other people to create a circle – BUT that’s only necessary if you’re a plebeian. If you happen to have Druid or Wiccan blood in you – again, this is a matter of luck, not pedigree – you just need yourself. Tonight I will call upon Abundantia, the goddess of good fortune – because Christmas is quickly around the corner!”

Kara lifts her arms, raises her head, and closes her eyes.

“We call upon thee, Abundantia
Please grant us visit and bequeath us gifts most renowned
Come and communicate”

The leading of the windows begin to rattle. The floor vibrates. A gust of wind sweeps through the room, extinguishing all candlelight. The Youtube screen goes completely black, but the audience can hear a creaking sound, like wood snapping.
A blood-curdling shriek suffuses the mill and suddenly candles relight. In the illumination, Youtube can see that Kara is levitating without her control.
A vortex opens behind her, sucking her in.
“I think our message crossed paths with a demon, guys! I should have practiced a little more before doing this!
Please, start a crowd funding page for me to be rescued from this demon realm.
And make sure to subscribe to my channel and post your comments/questions in the thread below.
Bye, lovers!”
The vortex swallows Kara and quickly collapses.
Kara’s laptop remains on, taping the flickering candles.

Don’t give me that condescending look. Okay, sure, maybe I was stupid enough to place myself in idiotic circumstances which hastened my death – yes, bitch, I’m dead – but I refuse to be pitied.

No, fucking, no. And don’t you fucking dare admonish against my vulgar diction and the manner in which cunts, cum, fuck, piss, damn, bastard, & bitch spew from my lips like unintended spittle. I’m dead, there’s not much use for pleasantries and feigned, polite countenances. So, fuck your preconceptions and hypocritical judgment, I’m going to do and say exactly as I please – something I wish I’d practiced more in my mortal life.

So let’s just arrive at the damn point: Sex murdered me.

I possessed so much potential; there was great hope I’d grow to engineer a life of infinite success. Grades remained high. Tests were passed with flying colors. In school, I always placed first in my class: first chair in clarinet and winner of my third grade, school-wide reading contest – bitch I was intellectually fabulous.

While I wasn’t overly social, I did retain a group of girlfriends. In looking at old photos, all were much more frumpy and fat than what I’d remembered. But through my ability to communicate with women along with my aptitude for algebra, there was great hope in a dexterity of the mind flanking both hemispheres.

Boys, though I was one, remained an alien species and I never seemed to meet one who shared my appreciation for frilly things such as smocking on Barbie dresses, Louise May Alcott, festoons of sunflowers, and perennially graceful Sky Dancers.

Yes, cuntface, I’m fucking gay. I’m gay, a coquettish whoreski slut, and I’m dead. But don’t you throw your stones at me, Murano, not when you’re built on glass.

I held lofty expectations for myself. Competitiveness fueled a desire for power, wealth, and other stereotypical trappings of success.

Then I discovered my sexuality.

After my first orgasm, like some mad heroin addict, I found myself obsessed with sex. Sexual thoughts grew into a full-time job and my desire for success waned in its shadow. My thorax shat out all determination and drive, leaving an emptiness that only a dick could fill. Additionally, after discovering my thirst for semen, I self-diagnosed my drive and determination as merely a tool my mind designed to overcome feelings of shame caused by my homosexuality. After twerking out the closet, I felt no need to compensate any longer.

I sent my drive with Felicia.

After the first release of oxytocin in my brain, (a neurohypophysical hormone your body releases during sex – heroin mimics this effect, explaining why both substances are highly addicting), ANYWAY, after the first release of oxytocin, I decided I could do nothing except be gay; a rapturous conflagration of fagdom, one blowjob at a time.

In my blind obsession, I grew into a body dysmorphic nymphomaniac. Sex reinforced my insecurities and working out led to more sex. Drugs also led to more sex, so let’s not forget I permanently rode the roller coaster of uppers and downers.

Stop right fucking there and take a moment. Don’t write me off as some clichéd cautionary tale – though ostensibly that would be the case. Alas, I didn’t die from a fucking drug overdose or AIDS. I’m dead, I’m not fucking stupid.

I probably should mention I did juggle a fairly successful copy-writing career while maintaining my sex addiction. It takes a few brain cells or two to accomplish this.

So while I’m not a complete blundering buffoon, I did do something stupid.

I died at the hands of a serial killer.

…

Now that I’m dead, I’m not sure where I am. I mean, I know I’m on Earth, walking as a lonely ghost in solitude. But is this listless ennui hell, purgatory, or was our interpretation of heaven fucking wayyyy off?

It’s strange, I’m here, completely lucid yet, and sorry to shunt a juxtaposition at you, I feel completely catatonic, as if I’m suffering a Xanax haze. While I have no corporal body to speak of, I still feel I look the same, but who’s to know? While I can observe and walk the mortal world, I cannot interact and there sure as hell aren’t any other ghosts (is that what I’ve fucking become?) out there to confirm this.

The lack of interaction is the worst part. I can’t even fucking haunt anybody. And there are some spiteful bitches I’d love to give a good fright.

What really sucks is I have to watch the sick bastard who killed me play with my carcass. No, the fetid stench and quick decay doesn’t seem to faze his fetish for carrion. It fucking makes me want to vomit, only I can’t, because before I died I pretty much starved myself of any food to discharge from my gut.

We’ll get back to my carcass, don’t worry. But first I want to address another tedious truth about death. While you walk the earth and observe its stories, language is rendered completely unrecognizable. Watching my circuit friends carry on their lives, I can only assume I understand their stories – it’s kind of like watching the television on mute or a foreign film.

Yes, I’m fucking stuck watching a foreign film without subtitles for all eternity – it seems.

But I certainly chose some shitty friendships. Even my veritable best friends, Joey, John, and Brady, didn’t attend my funeral.

Joey did return to my apartment after learning of my death, which I initially found sweet and intimate. I’d just returned back from a visit to my rotting body, when I noticed him resting on my couch, slouched in depression, his head weighted down into his palms.

When I sat down to comfort him, I witnessed my paraphernalia and needles splayed across the glass coffee table. Then I realized Joey hadn’t returned to my apartment for some private ceremony to grieve my bereavement. Nope, the motherfucking scamp just used his access as my friend to steal the remainder of my drugs.

With nothing else to do, I still find a curiosity in watching my ‘friends’ carry on their lives. In this unrestricted access as a ghostly voyeur, I only confirm the superficiality of our relationships.

John, whom I’d spent countless hours jovially dancing through our MDMA highs, turned out to be a very crestfallen soul. Besides his intoxicated forays into monthly circuit parties, John remained a reclusive hermit, scared to address the world beyond gay nightlife.

Joey is just a drug addict and a man whom collects debts to preserve a false image of success.

Brady, however, turned out to be an interesting Renaissance man with a thirst for knowledge and desire to change the world. His love of circuit parties simply reflected his zest for life and affection for dance. He loves to read, a pastime I also engaged in. Wish I’d fucking asked him more about himself or at least that he would have realized I still would have found him interesting if our conversations consisted of more than pills undulating to sexual positions.

But none of us exposed our true layers to each other and simply agreed upon a friendship that appeared perfect on Instagram – as phony as the filters and hashtags assigned to each photo. Therefore, none of us inspired each other anymore beyond the dance floor. Who could I share my hopes and dreams with?

No, after high school, I closed myself off from the world, finding connection through sex – but not as a tool to connect on a human level. My passion resided in primal trysts anonymously scheduled through applications like Grindr.

Which is where my killer ordered me up like fine caviar.

His photo lured me initially, but his blunt, sexual discourse really boiled my blood. His blue eyes reflected the Aegean Sea, resting on a perfectly chiseled, square face. Dark hair flowed eloquent and disheveled atop his head and his beige skin accentuated ripped muscles on his abdomen. I asked for a dick pic and received an 8-incher, something a bona-skank is never disappointed with.

I couldn’t wait to fuck him.

When I arrived at his mansion, another turn on, I felt no tingling of fear or trepidation, well at least nothing more than the excitement in knowing my ass was about to be penetrated.

A man of few words, but deep, telling eyes, he led me through a central hallway, down a flight of stairs to a dark sex room. I saw a sex swing hanging in the center of the room and confidently jumped on, hoping to retain my role as a bossy bottom.

My killer chuckled quietly, politely, before strapping my wrists and ankles in the swing. At this point I was a little alarmed, not alarmed for my life or safety, but more self-conscious at my ability to swing a new fetish successfully without appearing virginal.

“Have you ever been fisted?” my killer asked me in a coquettish tone. He was so dreamy, I would have acquiesced to his shitting on my chest.

Just kidding, you gullible cunt. I’m a dead gay boy, not a pervert.

But I did let him fist me.

It began with his index and middle finger. Then he slipped in his ring and pinky. Next thing I knew shoved his hand up my rectum. I feigned pleasure – that shit fucking hurt.

But it wasn’t enough for him, he attempted to enter four fingers from his other hand. At this, I demurred. No ass is made for two fists.

But he refused to accept my objection. His eyes widened with incendiary passion. He shoved both arms up, practically swimming the 100 meter breast stroke in my anus. I kicked and squealed like a pig being slaughtered, which seemed to egg him on. He entered deeper.

Then the real pain started.

The sick fucking Judas began to claw my intestines, rending and tearing me from the inside. Pain shot through every existing nerve in my body like billions of penicillin needles.

He pulled out his arm, now covered in fecal-stained blood and smiled, licking each finger as he watched me exsanguinate. I continued to bleed out for an hour as he masturbated and returned to his sanguine swim lessons.

Twenty-seven good years of hope drained out with each scarlet drop.

To be honest, what I miss most is my family. I cut off ties with them to spare them the embarrassment of my new, fast-lane lifestyle. I knew I’d always return once I matured and was ready to make them proud. But the first pill and party quickly melts to five years later.

I still don’t know if I believe in a Heaven and Hell – but if I am anywhere, this certainly must be hell. Sartre had it wrong, hell is NOT other people. Hell is being barred off from other people, destined to walk the earth completely alone as life continues on without you. What’s the point of twerking if no one’s there to lust after your rippling fat?

It’s even worse for the individuals who die at the hands of serial killers. Yesterday, the grisly rapscallion removed my beautiful skin , no doubt to make some Ed Gein furniture piece. What a disrespect – to ruin a body so sacrosanct and perfectly fit. It’s heretical, especially if he’s a gay man. But I can do nothing except observe, living the remainder of eternity with only regret.

First of all, let me say that this ALS ice bucket challenge has been a winning success and I’m happy for all the funds and awareness raised. But my Facebook feed is 90% men, so really, it’s just been a digital wet, tighty whitey contest. (Not that I mind) though there is one image in my cabeza which is engendered:

Anyway, onto the real blog post – I’ll try to keep it short.

Here’s what we know:

On the surface, it seems we live in an easier time to connect with others. If you’re horny, there’s an app for fast food sex: .

If you want to chat (or e-stalk), log in to your Facebook.

If you want to see shirtless men, selfies, or pictures of food, log in to Instagram.

But when you really investigate what’s going on, it folds like a house of cards; revealing that what you believed to be truth is actually fallacy.

Fast food sex, like fast food, is unhealthy and clogs your mind. While it may be appetizing, it’s never filling.

Your Facebook, a tool to connect with others, has chained you to an unending digital conversation, distracting you from real, synchronous connections. The image of six friends at brunch on their phones chills me, it’s like some Ray Bradbury novel set in a future dystopia. Except the future is now, and the dystopia is not recognized by the mass of unaware people.

Additionally, our need to photograph every moment, every day, decreases the value. The photos, like our memories, are easily recycled or thrown away, making way for the next one.

So this PR race to live a fabulous, digital life or just keep up with the increasing number of apps with which we can connect on has affected and stunted our true relationships. Basically, we’ve become emotionally & socially retarded. Truly, some of these ‘influencers’ I meet in real life are the dullest people in the world – unable to spew anything of interest from their mouths. Sure you’re pretty. Pretty boring.

Maybe this has always been the case and I’m just using social media as the scapegoat, but people in general seem really ethnocentric, vain, gossipy, and selfish nowadays.

Because of this, people seem lonelier. Robin Williams said it best: I used to think the worst thing in life is to end up all alone. It’s not. The worst thing in life is to end up with people who make you feel all alone.

It’s true. This imaginary castle we erected, also known as identity, when built by the opinions of others, is rarely real or strong enough to survive an attack. So, out of fear, we find ourselves in imperfect relationships.

Too many times when I ask coupled friends why they like each other, I receive the same mundane answer:

Oh, he’s nice and he treats me well.

He’s nice? He treats you well?

Have we as humans become so repulsive that our basis for what we want in love is simply someone nice, who treats us right?

No, all people should be nice and treat each other right. That should be a given. The answer should be something like: we have the same thoughts, the same passions, and he’s the one man in the world who understands my fetish for collecting trolls. Plus he has an ass that won’t quit.

Now THAT’s a relationship that sounds like it’s working.

But it’s hard to find these types of connections because people refuse to look up from their phones, so tied to this thirsty fame rat race.

Well.

Let me let you in on a little secret. You don’t have to be a Cinderella dater. Trying on every shoe, won’t help you find the right one. Instead, you’ll just end up with too many pairs to choose from, eventually settling on one, not because it’s the one you wanted, but because you’re tired of searching. In fact, when you were busy throwing out all those shoes to try on the next one, you may have accidentally thrown away the perfect pair.

You shouldn’t settle on someone just because they’re nice; you shouldn’t settle at all. You should open yourself up and welcome passion.

So here’s my challenge:

Look up.

Put the phone away, and close all those applications. Now that the internet and phones are ubiquitous, it’s our responsibility at humans to set limits. Give me, as a friend in your presence, the respect of holding your full attention. Maybe then we will ALL become nice people who treat each other right and that won’t be the sad standard we currently set for our dating lives.

Look up and you’ll be aware of your match when he walks into your life. If you’re constantly seeking, you’ll never see what you have and possibly just end up settling for someone who’s nice and treats you right.

I generally think of myself as “in-shape”. I workout 6 days a week, sometimes twice. I think that falls in the social onset, body dysmorphic, workout-addicted, prototype proliferating through Los Angeles, don’t you? Granted, every now and then, in a stoned haze I’ll down a half-pound of pasta, but hey! Cardio was invented to offset carb addiction.

But alas, I’m just an average American, cream cheese curdling through my veins, compared to the crossfitters.

I walk into “The Box” (apparently that’s what the Reebok labs are called sometimes – other than being called labs as well. When did gym become passé?) where a mass of crossfitters are seated on wooden cubbies, watching five individuals (crossfit trainers) deadlift and heave from “The Box”’s entrance.

All five trainers are hulks. It looks as though Reebok commissioned Michaelangelo to sculpt their bodies. Can muscles really grow on top of muscles?

I stand there watching, initially impressed, then intimidated, and eventually resting comfortably in the aroused lounge. Is that a man or a woman? Nevermind, doesn’t matter, I want my body to look like that.

My friend, a born-again crossfitter, pulls me in the class. “You can have a piece of this pie too! All it takes is determination, $250 a month, oh, and of course, your soul.”

I’m invited to this class because the WOD indicated it was buddy day. Don’t confuse WOD with shredded, gooey napkins from a laptop-side masturbation sesh – Crossfit WODs are simply the “workout of the day”s – posted so you can prepare – you know, bring a towel for cardio days, get extra sleep on endurance days, and bring a Home Depot vomit bucket for the buddy days.

So the WOD begins – some ungodly combination of two 12-minute non-stop circuits between running, kettle balls, and pushups. Initially, I’m good. I don’t overexert myself and maintain form. But my body-space acuity is worse than a drunk squirrel’s, plus kettle balls were foreign to me.

Obviously struggling, the trainer corrects me.

“You have to thrust up with your groin. Thrust your arms up with your groin and pop back your back to achieve it.” The trainer begins to hump the invisible woman.

“You mean thrust like I’m … ?” I ask.

“Yes.” He says. But I don’t move that way – I’m a bottom!

I figure it out, but at this point, my breathing slows down and muscles fatigue. Holy shit! We have another 15 minutes left! I inhale deeply right as the crossfitter next to me claps his hands – after rubbing them in the chalk bin. I choke on a cloud of chalk as I embark on my final 400 meter run, not before I’m almost hit in the face by someone else’s kettle ball in my chalk-induced blindness.

The girl in last place for this circuit, the final one to reach The Box before our first 12 minutes ended, was red in the face, sweaty, and gasping but arrived to The Box with cheers and claps. “Yay! You look like you’re dying! Keep going!”

I arrived about a minute or two after the last girl – to no applause because they’d already begun discussing their next set.

So the second set continues and I complete a full 9 minutes before I feel it. The bubbling, rumbling, the flow. I’m about to burst and it’s not going to be pretty. I leave my teammate hanging with barely a word and rush to the bathroom to a wide audience of judging stares. (I stupidly chose a corner on the OPPOSITE side from the restroom.)

In the restroom, after puking the entire bottle of water I guzzled, I feel as though I’m dying. My heart thumps out of my chest, my head spins like an engine belt, and I’m not sweating – I’m gushing. I don’t have my towel or shirt at this point, but I lock eyes with a box of toilet seat covers. I grab a few to sop up my sweat; they disintegrate on my face upon sopping, leaving flecks of wet tissue paper glued to my forehead.

I leave the bathroom to disappointment. The workout ended. Stretching and cool down arrived.

As we stretch, another member chats with me.

“Are you visiting?” he asks me. I tell him, yes I’m new and trying crossfit out. He explains that in Crossfit – visiting means you are a crossfitter and are simply on vacation, checking out another city’s Box. I tell him there’s too many sexual innuendos to fully register that sentence.

He ceases the conversation. I didn’t mind, he came off as an insurance sales agent or a Jehovah’s Witness, not anyone really trying to converse. I stretch to my other leg, where I listen to two Avatars, sorry, girls, gossip about dating.

“Omg, it was perfect. He was funny, he was paleo AND he was crossfit. I think he’s the one.”

After the class, my kegels, or some type of interior leg muscles I didn’t’ know I had, were sore until Wednesday. Class was Saturday. But after, I felt this lingering sense of intensity, kind of like a desire to continue pushing myself. This class, unlike my go-to BUTI workout, is different. It’s not a fun dance party masquerading as a workout – it’s truly like you’re a Greek soldier training for war. But I dig that. In fact, I’m going to take all 6 of the Foundations classes.